


And there he was

by Laurie



Series: Cold Little Heart [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, Idiots in Love, M/M, no matter what I do Angst happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 00:12:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19734472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurie/pseuds/Laurie
Summary: The thing is: all good things must come to end, Crowley knows it as well as he knows that Aziraphale’s eyes are sunny-sky blue. For all the love he is made of – even Aziraphale can’t be that forgiving.





	And there he was

**Author's Note:**

> And I'm back! I hoped I was done with these two, but they miracled themselves into another story anyway...
> 
> I'd like to thank everybody who read the first story and reviewed it and supported me - thank you so much you amazing lovely people! You've no idea how much it meant to me <333 To all whom I haven't got the chance to reply yet - I will soon, I've just been so out of it with work and life and things... Cheers!
> 
> This is the second part to the story I've written in this fandom called Cold Little Heart. I recommend reading it first if you like to have a clue on what's happening when you read something :) without the first part this one wouldn't make much sense, I'm afraid
> 
> Rant over now. Do enjoy!

“I swear this is the last one!” Aziraphale claims, as Crowley catches him eating a massive blueberry muffin, a clear violation of his recently announced heart-healthy diet. Crowley rolls his eyes rather exaggeratedly, making sure Aziraphale sees him do it.

“Don’t make promises you are not gonna keep, angel,” he smirks, sprawling on a chair across Aziraphale. “You still haven’t sold me on the whole diet thing, too, though. I mean – you realize you’re not going to have a heart attack, right? It’s just not possible.”

Aziraphale sighs and sets the muffin down on his desk. “I know it’s not. It’s just—” he sighs again, eyes skirting sideways. “I might want to lose some of the, ah, gut.”

Crowley runs the words over in his head, then does it again. He frowns.

“ _The gut?_ What are you bloody talking about?”

“Well, um,” Aziraphale says haltingly, gazing at the ginormous muffin with guilt and longing, “it has been brought to my attention, that I might have some, erh, excessive weight in the area of my stomach.”

He says it with a small frown, a bit confused, as if he has never heard of such a thing before.

There’s an image before his eyes, suddenly, of Aziraphale looking sleepy and inadequate and lost and so, so fucking thin, like he’s been starving, so fucking thin – his clothes are hanging off of him like shapeless rags, his face too narrow, cheeks hollowed-out, eyes empty and unseeing and _I need to fix the faucet, Crowley—_

Just like that, Crowley is raging.

“Who the hell said that?!” he sits straight in his chair, eyes travelling up and down Aziraphale’s lovely-dear-beautiful-amazing-hot body. “Tell me, who the fuck—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale cuts him off, wincing. “Don’t make a fuss about it. It’s just a muffin,” he says in fake careless tone. “And please don’t swear.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says slowly, as his fingers move the muffin closer to Aziraphale across the desk, seemingly without his notice. “That is the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard. I mean it. You look— _just fine_ ,” he finishes clumsily. His hand moves across the desk to lay on top of Aziraphale’s, awkwardly and hesitantly, and he has no idea if it’s even acceptable – they haven’t set any bloody boundaries to this, this _thing_ they’ve got going now, and he’s so completely out of his element—

 _I don’t even like you_ , Aziraphale’s voice rings in his head.

He drops his hand before it can reach Aziraphale’s.

“I’m not blind, Crowley,” Aziraphale huffs, scowling. “I can see I am objectively bigger than the average human. There’s no need to sugar-coat it for me.”

“The only thing I’m sugar-coating for you is that bloody muffin!” Crowley says, snapping his fingers. The muffin is now sufficiently sugared. “Whoever that twat was to even imply that you’re fucking—”

“Just drop it, Crowley, I mean it,” Aziraphale says in his haughty no-nonsense tone. Then adds, a bit softer: “please.”

_I don’t even like you_

Stop it, he thinks desperately. Stop it.

He shakes his head, huffs out an exasperated sigh, moves the bloody muffin closer to the angel still.

“Angel, if you die right now – let’s just pretend as if that was even possible,” he says in a lighter tone, eager to lift the mood. “Of all the things you’re gonna regret, this muffin won’t be one of them.”

If anything, Aziraphale’s face becomes even darker, moodier, as his eyes slide off Crowley’s face and stare into nothingness, unseeing.

“No,” he agrees quietly, somberly, as if indeed going over the list of all the things he’d regret, and Crowley winces, “no, it won’t.”

_I don’t even like you_

Stop it, just stop it.

He bites his lip till he can taste blood, until the voice fades out in his head.

Aziraphale doesn’t eat the muffin.

***

The smell is the worst of it all – the fire around him, the bright red flames swallowing the walls and the very soul of the place, the crackling sound of burning wood and paper – they all fade in comparison to the smell. That’s what hits him the most, strangely enough. The smell is horrible. Harsh, sharp, heavy, stale, suffocating. More importantly, it’s not the abundance of it that’s horrifying, it’s the lack – he can’t smell Aziraphale anymore, it’s just gone.

Aziraphale is gone. Crowley’s whole being spills out, crumbles and shatters. Aziraphale is gone.

The store is burning around him, charred pieces of paper flying around, flames bursting and biting like Hellfire itself, the sound of it all deafening and utterly crushing and where the fuck is Aziraphale, _god, satan, Aziraphale Aziraphale you bastard where are you_

Crowley, booms the voice from everywhere at once. The whole building around him shakes.

Crowley, yells the voice, and he falls to his knees and he’s burning too, the flames eating him up—

“Crowley!” Aziraphale yells seemingly right into his ear, as he jerks awake violently. Vaguely, he registers the shaking to be coming from Aziraphale’s hand on his shoulder. Everything around him is dark and bleary and surreal. He focuses on his breathing, in and out, in an out, in and out again –

“My dear, it’s just a dream,” Aziraphale says, voice hoarse from sleeping. Distantly, Crowley wonders what even made Aziraphale decide to have any sleep in the first place. “It’s just a dream, darling, it’s not real.”

Crowley shuts his eyes. It’s as real as the fucking bed they’re lying on, to him, as real as Aziraphale’s hands on his body.

Except that it’s not. Not in this version of reality, at least. Not in Aziraphale’s version.

“Yes, yes,” he lets out, his own voice sounding strange to him, a rusty croak in the darkness. “A dream.”

He can’t see Aziraphale’s face in the darkness that surrounds them. They’re lying in bed, sheets tangled between them, Aziraphale’s body wrapped around him like an affectionate strait-jacket. Dimly, Crowley remembers that the position he is in is generally referred to as the ‘little spoon’. He turns from the stifling hotness of Aziraphale’s embrace, throwing Aziraphale’s hand off him, sits up, tries to calm his racing heart, cool his hot sweaty body.

“Darling,” Aziraphale calls in the darkness, and there it is – that fucking word again, making his stomach drop and the lump appear in his throat. Aziraphale says it in a tone, as if Crowley was something to be cherished, to be adored, to be _loved_ as if he fucking deserved to be someone’s _darling_ , let alone Aziraphale’s, as if he deserved—

He stands, breathing hard, trying to find the strength in his wavering legs.

“What did you dream about?” Aziraphale asks him quietly. There’s an unmistakable sound of Aziraphale getting out of bed, the soft footsteps of his bare feet against the carpet. “My dear, you can tell me.”

His voice is soft and smooth and wraps around Crowley like a warm blanket. He lingers, listens to it, but then, before Aziraphale can approach him, he’s already manoeuvring in the darkness of the room, around the bed, makes his way to the door.

“Go back to sleep,” he says, as the door closes with a hollow sound, leaving the angel behind.

Aziraphale doesn’t follow him.

***

“You’re the most atrocious beings in the world,” he is saying, shaking the flower pot vehemently. “You’re disgusting. I’m fucking disgusted with you!” The plant gives off a faint vibe of horror. “No one will ever love you, you pathetic excuse for _flora_! You don’t deserve any love, you hear me? You are pathetic and vile and fucking unlovable, and don’t you ever forget that!”

He puts the flowerpot back on the shelf, panting, turns around and sees Aziraphale standing in the doorway. He looks inexplicably sad.

“What?” Crowley says, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze. “You know the way I speak to them, don’t act so surprised now!”

“I do, indeed,” Aziraphale says, pursing his lips. “It’s just that sometimes I’m not so sure it’s _them_ you are speaking to.”

***

The thing is – Crowley knows this isn’t going to last. He’s lived his life for about six thousand years, and he hasn’t managed to get where he is by being naïve or plain stupid. He knows this is not going to last.

Whatever this is that’s started between them – it’s got to be temporary. However exciting and exotic this all might feel to Aziraphale, the novelty is bound to wear off anytime now.

Whichever way they might be fooling themselves, sharing this utterly foolish delusion that this new arrangement could ever work, Crowley is not an idiot.

Aziraphale is the purest and the kindest and the warmest and the loveliest and the most brilliant creature to ever walk God’s green earth, and Crowley is… well, he is _Crowley._ One part pathetic, one part vile, and a dash of a death-wish for a spice. There’s still a cup of Holy Water tucked out in his safe, after all, just in case.

For the life of him, he can’t imagine why Aziraphale would ever want to even toe the tip of his filthy muddy waters.

The thing is: all good things must come to end, Crowley knows it as well as he knows that Aziraphale’s eyes are sunny-sky blue. For all the love he is made of – even Aziraphale can’t be _that_ forgiving.

All he can do is wait now, really, nothing more than that left. The novelty will wear off, and Aziraphale is going to wake up one day, register the abomination lying in bed next to him and hate himself.

At least there’s no way he could hate him more than Crowley already does himself, after all. It’s a small comfort, really, but it’s the sad truth, and there isn’t much sense in pretending otherwise.

When they are not together, Crowley goes back to his flat, waters his plants, watches the telly by himself. Turns on the old sitcoms he used to love once – a lifetime ago, but now _Friends_ feels like some sort of allegory, a bitter commentary on his own suffering. He turns it off, sits there alone, listening to the silence.

It’s a wonder how he’s managed to fail at both being an angel and a demon, too. He’s always been good at faking it, though – nonconsequential sin here and there, making a mess, pushing the heavy stuff off of his shoulder. Aziraphale can say it all he wants, but there’s no forgiving _him,_ not after what he’s done in his long pathetic parody of a life. He always knew that all of it will someday come back on him, and well…

Well, now it’s come back on him like the hand of God, and he ought to have known that the shit he’d done would always, _always_ mean reckoning.

He smokes a cigarette, blows rings of smoke into the air, watching them until they dissolve into nothingness.

Even Aziraphale can’t be that forgiving.

***

“Why do you always keep doing that?” Aziraphale wonders, frowning, when Crowley pushes yet another biscuit onto his plate.

Crowley freezes, guilty and ashamed, feeling very much like a child being caught doing naughty business. He draws his hand back, lets it hang uselessly along his side, then turns around and fiddles with the wine bottle.

“Doing what?” he says, hoping vainly that Aziraphale would just drop it.

“Come off it, now, dear,” Aziraphale says, clicking his tongue. He sounds only mildly annoyed, though, so Crowley’s not yet panicking. “This! Always getting me to eat more! As if I _needed_ any more food!”

“Hmm,” Crowley says, still fiddling with the bottle. He feels quite miserable all of a sudden.

“A carrot here, a biscuit there!” Aziraphale continues. “And you’ve been doing it for quite a while now, at least since— _oh_.”

He falls abruptly silent, his mouth forming a perfect little _O,_ as he stares at Crowley with a new expression on his face. Crowley can’t quite decipher it, but it looks rather sad.

_The faucet is leaking I need to fix the faucet_

Stop it.

“Oh darling,” Aziraphale says gently, and Crowley flinches against his will. Feeling his eyes getting suddenly and rapidly wet, he turns back to the kitchen counter, his back to Aziraphale, as he desperately tries to occupy his shaky hands. And then he feels Aziraphale’s arms coming up around his waist, pulling him back against Aziraphale’s chest. He lets himself be enveloped into the warmth, body melting back into Aziraphale’s, eyes sliding shut.

“Have you been planning to force feed me pastries and vegetables until I wouldn’t fit into a doorway?” Aziraphale asks him, soft and amused, hot breath against his ear, nose nuzzling at the nape of his neck.

“Well, it makes sense, what with all your ridiculous talks about diets and _excess weight_ ,” Crowley grumbles back, weakly, kind of losing the point he was going to make with Aziraphale so warm and solid against his back.

“Crowley, you’ve been cooking us three-course meals for the past week – quite delicious, might I add – me losing any weight would have to be _miraculous_ at this point.”

“I know, it’s just—” He shakes his head, annoyed at being this weak for Aziraphale, _because of_ Aziraphale. “It’s not rational, alright?” Aziraphale’s arms circle him even tighter, and now he can feel Aziraphale’s heartbeat against his back, his warm breath on the back of his neck, making the skin all over his body flush with goosebumps. “It’s like when humans who were starving at some point overcompensate by hoarding food for the rest of their lives.”

“But _you_ are the one doing the hoarding,” Aziraphale says gently, his hand comping up to rest on Crowley’s chest right above his galloping heart.

“Well, apparently, I’m the one who ended up with a—with a _trauma_ over this, for some ungodly reason! At this rate you’re gonna start counting calories next,” Crowley snaps, defensive and pathetic, and he can’t believe he’s even admitting this put loud for the world to hear. Aziraphale makes him do the stupidest things.

“I’m so, so sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers into his ear, quiet and somber, and _please,_ what the fuck does Aziraphale have to apologise for? Being too kind? Too sympathetic? Being too compassionate for his own fucking good?

_The faucet is leaking I need to fix—_

Stop it stop it stop it

He shuts his eyes tight, fighting to get the voice out of his head. Distantly, he hears the cookware shake and rattle, sees the lights in the room flickering, the door in another room swinging closed with a slam.

“It’s alright,” he whispers back urgently, before Aziraphale has enough time to get worked up to destroy half the flat with his uncontrollable surges of wild emotion.

The bloody _monster_ in his chest, he called it. Crowley would laugh, if he didn’t want to cry.

Aziraphale had thought Crowley would hate him for it, funny that. As if Crowley could ever hate something that’s a part of Aziraphale.

 _I’m so sorry,_ Aziraphale keeps saying like a desperate mantra, and Crowley has no idea what it is he is even apologizing for. They just stand there, embracing each other, until the street goes dark outside.

Aziraphale ends up eating the biscuit, after all.

***

On a rainy Sunday, Crowley suggests a trip around French countryside. He blurts the words out before he can think about them properly, and Aziraphale looks up at him sharply.

“What makes you suggest that?” he says, frowning, somewhat suspicious.

“It’s just something I’ve thought about for some time,” Crowley admits with a shrug. It’s been on his mind for at least a few decades now, the idea having appeared suddenly in his head and never going away, niggling at him from the back of his mind, demanding attention. Maybe he had a dream about it once, oddly detailed, strangely specific – and he can’t quite stop imagining them in the warm and sunny countryside of summer France.

He’s never let himself consider actually doing that, and now he does.

Aziraphale’s frown fades gradually, and he looks outside the window at the cold rainy London streets, people gathered around in tight little groups under the roofs of shops and cafes avoiding the rain.

“I don’t see why not,” Aziraphale says then, with a brilliant smile.

And that’s that.

***

They end up going that very same afternoon. They only need so much, and it takes Crowley just over a couple of minutes to miracle his Bentley over across the English Channel. He’d be damned, if they ever have to rent from a place like Hertz rentals, with all the sophistication of farmer’s truck.

It’s warm and sunny and nice in France, just like he’d imagined it would be this time of the year. They get into the Bentley in Grenoble and just drive for as long as they want, nothing stopping them, no one following them. It’s a freedom Crowley’s never allowed himself to even contemplate, and now that he has is – he’s drunk with it. The Queen is playing loud and clear as they drive, the sun bright and warm above them.

They go north-west first, and the first stop they make is a large apple garden, when Aziraphale insists he simply _must_ get out and savour the beauty of it. They let themselves in, and Crowley plucks a lush red apple from one of the trees.

“Reminds you of anything, angel?” He says, feeling an odd mix of mirth, sadness and nostalgia. He throws the apple once or twice in the air, biting his lip, as he looks at Aziraphale.

“Are you going to tempt me with that?” Aziraphale says, and there’s something almost surreal in the way he stands there amongst hundreds and hundreds of apple trees, almost ethereal, blink-and-it’s-gone.

“Haven’t I already tried that?” Crowley mutters, the strangeness and surrealism of the moment making him feel jittery and dizzy. “You reckon, second time’s the charm?”

“I reckon,” Aziraphale says slowly, moving closer to Crowley between the branches of apple trees everywhere between them. His gaze is hot and intense, fixed on Crowley, pinning him in place. “That I’m rather more prone to being tempted by you, darling, this time around.”

And maybe it’s the way the air around them seems to suddenly lose all oxygen, maybe it’s the odd surrealistic feeling of it all, and maybe it’s that goddamn word yet again making him lose touch with the reality, but the next thing he knows – they are in the grass, apples scattered around them, as Aziraphale is fucking him desperately and intensely, like the world would be gone as soon he stops.

Later, they lie there, fucked out and sweaty and panting, and Crowley feels a stab of gross sadness and great loss, as if something he’s been trying so hard to preserve has already slipped away from him.

***

They make a stop at a tiny little town called Colmar in the east of France, old and sleepy in the heat of August sun. It’s a tiny old place, really, population of five and a dog at most, but there’s something lovely about the small town, something ancient and powerful and sacred.

It’s barely two o’clock on a Sunday when they leave the Bentley on a tiny parking lot in front of an even tinier Tesco, but the whole town seems to be asleep already. All stores are closed – all two of them, Crowley thinks as they walk around the narrow cobbled streets – and the only place alive and breathing is a small pastry place in the very centre of the town.

“Two raspberry tarts, please,” Aziraphale says to the cashier boy, beaming, but the boy shakes his head at him, uncomprehending.

“Let me do the talking, angel,” Crowley says, stepping in in front of Aziraphale. “This bloke isn’t used to serving someone as English as you,” he adds, and repeats the order in French.

“I’m an Angel, Crowley, I’m not actually English or any other nationality,” Aziraphale tells him outside, as they sit at one of the empty tables of the café. Crowley wonders why they even bother setting up all these table – the town is virtually empty, and the only person they’ve encountered so far was an old man walking his equally old dog.

“You’re so English, you might as well have a Union Jack stuck on your forehead,” Crowley smirks, biting into his raspberry tart. It’s surprisingly delicious. “Fancy a cuppa?”

Aziraphale looks thoughtful. “Well, I suppose, I’ve just found the place I’m most comfortable with, then.” He chews on his own tart, makes a sound that might as well have come from a porn film. “A place where I belong.”

And maybe that’s it, Crowley thinks, as the painfully familiar sense of weariness engulfs him, makes his heart slow down like it’s almost dead, _maybe that’s it._ Crowley has never belonged anywhere. He’s made a shit of an angel, he’s made an even worse shit of a demon, and he’s never felt like he could belong with any of the crowd.

 _There’s no ‘our’ side,_ something in his head reminds him in Aziraphale’s voice.

_I don’t even like you_

Stop it, just stop this

He puts the tart back on the table, sits on his hands so they would stop shaking.

 _Our side._ Those words were once the bedrock on which Crowley built his entire existence. Everything Crowley ever built is broken now.

_The store is burning around him, charred pieces of paper flying around, flames bursting and biting, the sound of it roaring in his ears, and Aziraphale is gone is gone is gone_

Stop it stop it stop it

“Are you quite alright, dear?” Aziraphale’s voice reaches him through the sudden haze. Crowley squints up at his figure and it's blotting out the glare of noon, haloed in sunlight. He looks absolutely Godlike.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m alright,” he mutters, feeling his hands shake and jerk.

Even Aziraphale can’t be that forgiving.

***

They stay in Colmar for the night, a tiny dusty hotel room that looks like it hasn’t been remodelled since the Renaissance. It’s not like they need the sleep, but there’s a kind of tension building up between them, a kind that’s twisted and stifling and makes Crowley burn up and quiver with desire for something he can’t even name himself.

While Aziraphale’s in the shower, Crowley slides into bed. He waits. He can feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead, one clammy drop at a time.

When Aziraphale comes out, naked but for the towel around his waist, Crowley fists his hands in the sheets and breathes raggedly, wonders if Aziraphale can feel how feverish he feels, how much he wants him, how much he needs him now.

Aziraphale slides on top of the covers and lies on his side facing Crowley, keeping a chaste distance. Crowley lets his breath out in a rush, shuts his eyes. He whole body is burning up, waves of heat coming off him that Aziraphale must be able to feel, and he is choking up on air and the remains of his pride, and his love—

“ _Aziraphale,_ ” he chokes out, throat closing up, and he wants and needs and craves.

“Sweetheart,” Aziraphale whispers, sounding pained, and Crowley doesn’t know if he can even handle this anymore, the endless endearments that he doesn’t fit, the person that he doesn’t deserve.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs, ashamed and bursting with too many things to name, and Aziraphale closes the distance between them and kisses him.

Crowley immediately wraps his arms around him, pulls him as close as he physically can. Aziraphale is warm and solid around him, whispers: “my darling” into his ear, but Crowley just keeps on kissing him, messy and deep and wet, like he can’t get enough.

He can never get enough of this. And he only has so many tries left.

Crowley moans and hears Aziraphale’s breath catch. Crowley goes along both of their bodies eliminating the negative space in between, from foreheads leaned together to lips brushing to Aziraphale’s heart beating against his chest, to Aziraphale’s cock Crowley can’t help touching, and even their toes are brushing against each other.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale is whispering, “Crowley.”

Distantly, Crowley hears a moan or a whine or a wail, and belatedly realizes it’s come from him. He squirms and shifts until his body fits perfectly against Aziraphale’s, like pieces of puzzle coming together, a part of Crowley fitting into each and every crook and nanny of Aziraphale’s body. He’s been hard since before they’ve entered the hotel, and he wants and needs, but before he can figure out how to even ask for it, Aziraphale shifts and turns them, and then Crowley is on his back and Aziraphale is plastered on top of him, their legs entangling. Aziraphale’s hands grab his arse, and Crowley draws in a sharp breath.

Aziraphale’s eyes bore into him: “You are the most wonderful thing God ever created,” he breathes. And maybe that’s just too much.

“Stop it, just stop it—” Crowley hisses, eyes sliding shut, unable to look at the person above him. Something fragile in him – something he’s never cared to acknowledge – twists and shatters, and he just _hurts._

Aziraphale’s hips drive into his, Aziraphale’s cock brushing against his, leaving a smear of precome on his hip. Crowley moans, hips bucking up helplessly, spine arching.

Aziraphale looks like he’s about to fall apart. “Someday, you’ll believe me,” he says feverishly, “Someday you’ll see, you’ll understand—”

Crowley just pants, crazed and crumbling, the intensity of it almost too much. He spreads his legs, offering himself up, the only thing he can give to Aziraphale anymore, the only thing left to give, and Aziraphale’s slick fingers touch and probe gently at the puckered muscle.

“You are _divine,_ ” barely a whisper.

His hands fly up to grasp at Aziraphale’s curly hair, then wrap around his neck, pulling him down into a crushing kiss, shutting him up so as not to hear any more of this rubbish. Any more words, and he’ll be done, he’ll be gone, he’ll be just out of it completely.

Then Aziraphale finds his prostate, and Crowley wails into his mouth. Aziraphale lets out a shaky moan, and Crowley revels in it – he’s got to, for it all will be over soon.

“Crowley, my love,” Aziraphale pants into his ear, his hand grabbing Crowley’s wrist and pinning it down to the mattress. He bends down, laps at one of Crowley’s nipples, sucks at the other one, and there’s a quivering wanton mess where an ancient hardcore demon should be.

He feels Aziraphale’s cock entering him, opening him, stretching him.

“Please, please, please,” he begs, and it’s all he’s ever done, really – begging. For Aziraphale, attention, Aziraphale’s acceptance, Aziraphale’s love.

Aziraphale’s forgiveness.

“ _Forgive me_ ,” he begs, voice cracking mid-sentence. He blinks the hot wetness out of his eyes desperately, forces himself to look at Aziraphale. “ _Please, forgive me_ ”

Aziraphale’s face shatters.

“Whatever would I forgive you for?” he wonders, his voice watery and rusty. “There’s nothing _to_ forgive, my love, don’t you see?”

“ _No no no_ ,” he pants, nerve endings on fire, as Aziraphale pulls out and drives back into him unsteadily. He feels like he’s melting, turning into hot liquid, and soon there’s going to be nothing left of him. “I’ve done—I’ve said—Please, love, please, forgive—”

“I’m the one who should be begging you,” Aziraphale rasps out, driving into him yet again, his hands fluttering over Crowley’s body, trying to touch him everywhere at once. The touching is light, like breeze from a butterfly’s wings, and gentle as if Crowley was made out of expensive china. He brushes his nose against Crowley’s nose, his eyelids, his lips, breathing in his scent. Crowley’s cock jerks and weeps at that, and he almost comes right then and isn’t he fucking _pathetic_

“I’m so, so sorry,” Aziraphale is whispering hotly into his ear, “for what I have done to you, for hurting you – again and again, for making you feel this way,” he lets out a watery shaky sound. “I’ll never forgive _myself”_

He snuggles his face into the crook of Crowley’s neck, their bodies touching everywhere, as Aziraphale drives into him, fast and erratic and filthy and perfect. He feels Aziraphale’s chest hair against his own chest, feels his nose scraping against the skin of his collarbone, smells the fresh and earthly odour that’s coming from the angel, breathes it in, focuses on just that – breathing, not blacking out from this cosmic sensation of worship and adoration and remorse and despair.

It’s too much, it’s too bloody much.

They’ve barely been doing this for a month, but he already cannot remember not ever doing this, ever not wanting this.

A month. Six thousand years. An eternity. What-the-fuck-ever.

Even Aziraphale can’t be that forgiving.

“Christ, Crowley,” Aziraphale pants into his ear, his hot breath ticklish. “I’m so close, darling, are you close—are you—”

His thrusts are much more aggressive now, much more unhinged, but there is something inescapably theatrical about the way Aziraphale pants ‘I love you I love you I love you’, Crowley thinks vaguely.

Theatrical or not, the words work the magic on him – or maybe it’s that it’s Aziraphale saying them that does it – but Crowley’s whole world spins and fades out and he fades out right along with it, as he comes and shakes and cries and pants and chokes.

“I love you, I love you so much—” Aziraphale keeps blabbing next to him, now having disengaged from Crowley and lying on his own side of the bed.

And yet again, Crowley just isn’t buying that.

They stay like that for a while, unmoving and quiet, until even the sound of their ragged breathing slows and fades out, until the silence is ringing between them – or maybe it’s just Crowley’s ears ringing. The room feels damp and smells of sex and misery and quiet madness.

With Aziraphale lying right next to him, Crowley thinks he’s never felt lonelier.

***

Somewhere between them leaving Strasbourg and crossing the state line to Merzig, the week-long trip around France turns into an indefinite tour around Europe. They keep mostly to the small sleepy towns, quiet and charming in ways London never gets these days, and they drive all days and all nights sometimes, and other times they check into two-star B&Bs in the middle of nowhere and fuck until it’s dawn.

There’s something intangible in the air, something he can’t quite put his finger on, but it stays between them like a stormy cloud above their heads, waiting to burst with thunder. The scenery around him keeps seeming more and more surreal to him with each passing day, as if someone else was living his life, wearing his clothes, driving his car, having sex with Aziraphale. With each passing day Crowley keeps losing bits and pieces of himself, leaving them behind in La Rosier and Gerardmer and Colmar and Hohenstein and Arzbach, waiting it out until there won’t be much of anything left.

Aziraphale is reluctant to point it out, voice it out loud – this tight ball of nervous energy between them, ticking away like a time bomb with unclear set date. Crowley is not sure Aziraphale’s even acknowledged it to himself, in the privacy of his own mind, but it’s there, clear as day, between them. And Crowley has an idea about what it is.

Aziraphale knows. In the heart of hearts, Aziraphale has always known, but now he’s already realized that this – this, between them – has to be over. Aziraphale must have known this from the very beginning.

This would be the last trip they’ll ever take around Europe. So they both cling to it like to a sexual fantasy, willing it to last, hold for just a bit longer. Because as soon as it’s over – this perfect little getaway of theirs – they are done.

_I don’t even like you_

Stop it, stop it, just fucking stop it

And the thing is, Crowley has managed to live without _this_ for six thousand fucking years, has seen it all, done it all, been there all, and he’s managed just _fine_ , thank you very much. Occasional fantasy and some wanking aside, he’s held together like a charm, all things considered, and he came out of it with a hard-earned knowledge that _he could survive without this._ He could survive without having _this_.

Of course, that was before Crowley actually went and broke a wall, all his shit spilling out, flowing over, flooding everywhere, and now he knows – _now he fucking knows_ – what it’s like, what _this_ is like, and he’s seen all that he’s never seen before, and felt all he’s never felt before.

Now, and isn’t it fucking ironic, having this brand-new knowledge – these little moments and memories kept and cherished at the back of his mind – Aziraphale’s lips, Aziraphale’s hands, Aziraphale’s cock, Aziraphale, Aziraphale Aziraphale… he’s not so sure he can ever go back to the life _before_. He’s not so sure he’ll be able to _manage just fine_ anymore, because fucking look at him.

The piece Aziraphale will cut off, soon and inevitable, will be the last of him.

***

They stop in Erfurt – a tiny town that’s German through and through, or at least that’s what Aziraphale claims – Crowley has never enjoyed Germany, especially since—

Well.

_I need to fix the faucet, the faucet is broken_

Stop stop stop fucking stop

The voice in his head is sometimes so loud and so booming, it’s like an invisible presence of a completely different person in him – tearing at him, chewing at him, burning him up. Aziraphale would bloody sympathize, his damned monster or whatnot.

“Would you look at this!” Aziraphale exclaims with childlike glee, tugging at Crowley’s elbow. He’s pointing at yet another display of chocolate figurines in the Chocolatery they’ve stumbled upon and gone into at Aziraphale’s insistence.

“Is that... a chocolate chess set?” Crowley says incredibly. He’s never seen the point of such ludicrous things – no one will ever actually _eat_ a chocolate chess set that they’ve spent an arm and a leg on.

“Quite brilliant, isn’t it?” Aziraphale says, looking longingly at the piece. It’s huge – at least fifteen pounds of diabetes waiting to happen and costing—

“ _500 euros?!”_ Crowley huffs out, incredulous. “Jesus, no one loves chess _that much!”_

Aziraphale sighs with a small warm smile. He points at another figurine instead.

“What about this, though?” It’s a small chocolate angel – grotesque winged naked toddler figurine that is nothing close to being appetizing, in Crowley’s book.

“Well, your naked butt is much nicer than this one’s, at least,” Crowley comments, dismissing the ugly toddler angel. “Do you reckon they might have one of me, too?”

“One of you?” Aziraphale laughs, his smile so warm Crowley is momentarily worried about all the chocolate melting around them. “As opposed to what – this one representing _me_?”

He shakes the ugly baby in front of Crowley’s face to emphasize his point. “Although, I must admit – should they have one of _you_ – and in chocolate as well… I’d gladly, ah, _devour_ it,” he adds with an exaggerated wink, and Crowley can’t help huffing out a laugh.

“Kinky,” he grins, “I didn’t realize your people are so deviant, angel.”

“ _You_ are my people, darling,” Aziraphale says then, as if it were the most simple and obvious thing in the world. Something in Crowley twists and melts at the words.

He turns away from Aziraphale, picks up random chocolate figurines before placing them back, just to have something to busy his shaking hands with.

“And anyway, what about your precious diet, huh?” he says instead.

Aziraphale’s gaze is sharp and intense, when he turns back to look at him.

“I’ve been on a diet long enough,” he says quietly, lips pursed, and his voice is bit wobbly, like he is trying hard to be brave.

Crowley swallows past the lump in his throat and changes the topic.

Back in the hotel later that night, Aziraphale finds a beautiful set of chocolate chess on his nightstand, wrapper and all. They stay up playing until Crowley’s hands almost stop shaking.

***

The store is burning around him, charred pieces of paper flying around, flames bursting and biting, the sound of it roaring in his ears, and Aziraphale is gone

Crowley wakes up.

The store is burning around him, and Aziraphale is gone.

Crowley wakes up.

Aziraphale is gone.

Crowley wakes up, he wakes up, he wakes up

***

In Halle they stop by a large Liddle to get the groceries Crowley needs to make dinner ( _I love it when you cook for me, darling!_ ), and they walk and walk around the isles, as Crowley trails after Aziraphale like a lost puppy.

“Christ’s sake, just pick one already!” He explodes after Aziraphale spends what feels like eleven years, picking a tomato sauce. “It’s all in German, anyway, so stop pretending you are actually reading that!”

Aziraphale lifts his eyes from the labels he’s been scrutinizing so carefully, his life might have depended on it. “Don’t tell me you haven’t at least picked up _some_ German in all these years, my dear?” And there’s a slight note of reproach in his tone.

“I have, you wanna check it out?” Crowley snaps, anxious and miserable at once. “Hmm, let me recall, how about _Heil_ or _Jude_ or, or _erschißen_ or—”

“Stop being so—so deliberately obtuse!” Aziraphale hushes in an angry whisper, looking anxiously around. It’s almost ten at night, and there’s no one in the isle besides them.

“I’m genuinely not,” Crowley says, putting his sweaty hands in his pockets.

_It’s not as if you fucking well have a soul_

Stop stop stop

The cans of sweet corn on the shelf next to them rattle and shake threateningly. Aziraphale sighs, rubs his eyes.

“I know. I know,” he says quietly, sending Crowley a tiny sad smile that looks jittery around the edges. “I’m sorry, love.”

He turns back to the cans of tomato sauce still in his hands. “You know, more and more recently, I’ve been thinking that humans might have just too much choice available,” he says in a much more casual tone. “Makes it impossible to choose anything at all. Always end up feeling like you’ve chosen the wrong thing.”

“You’re the one who’s always chirping on and on about the Free Will,” Crowley points out, glad to change the topic. “Well, _enjoy._ ”

“I’m not sure I enjoy much of this modern age of consumerism,” Aziraphale whines, and Crowley rolls his eyes. He leans against the canned green pea shelf, props his cheek onto his fist, watches Aziraphale being a spoiled little brat. “It sometimes makes me miss Soviet Russia, if you can believe it.”

“I _can't_ believe it!” Crowley laughs, throwing his head back. The ridiculousness of Aziraphale’s claim is not lost on him. “You wouldn’t last five minutes in Soviet Russia, right up until you went to the first restaurant only to find that your favourite _Petit Pois_ is not on the menu. Or the restaurant itself, in the first place.Or any restaurants at all.”

Aziraphale chuckles warmly. “Maybe you’re right, dear.”

“I know I’m right,” Crowley smirks, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “And that jacket of yours that you’ve kept in _tip-top_ condition? The party doesn't approve, I’m afraid.”

“Alright, alright, point taken,” Aziraphale says with a fond smile and turns back to the bloody sauce.

Crowley lets out a long-suffering sigh. “You just have to know what you want, Aziraphale.” He means to say it casually – he is talking about the bloody groceries, isn’t he – but then his voice comes out scratchy and low and hurt, and Aziraphale’s eyes shoot up to him.

“I know what I want, Crowley,” he says seriously, all trace of teasing gone from his face. “God knows, it’s taken me a long time, but I do.” He licks his lips anxiously, frowns, then adds: “Do _you_?”

The silence between them is only broken by the distant humming of the store’s refrigerators and freezers, the clicking sound of the elderly cashier lady punching out someone’s late-night bag of crisps and a six-pack of beer. Crowley’s suddenly uncomfortably aware of just how sweaty his palms are, rubs them along the sides of his pants, which doesn’t exactly help.

Crowley knows what he wants. Trouble is, he also knows what he needs. What Crowley wants is Hell freezing over, Angels falling on their arses and vanishing the fuck off, choosing how to live his own life, being forgiven. What Crowley needs is golden and blond and blue-eyed and warm and he doesn’t know if he can survive without.

“I—Yes.” He rasps out. “ _Yes_.”

Crowley cooks them both schnitzels that night. He ends up not using a tomato sauce at all.

***

He is awoken by someone pulling his arm gently, and when he blinks through the sleepy haze, Gabriel looks down on him in the darkness.

 _Come on, let’s go,_ he whispers, and Crowley gets up from the bed, dizzy and hypnotized, and follows him.

 _I want to show you something,_ Gabriel says into the darkness, without turning to him. The world is hazy and vague around him, eerie and unreal, but Crowley keeps following Gabriel, because it’s important, he knows it’s very important that he sees.

 _Not long now,_ Gabriel whispers, as they make their way around the tall thick trees, getting branches away from their faces. Dimly, Crowley realizes they’re walking through the forest. He can’t see anything but Gabriel’s back, moving ahead of him. He keeps following.

 _Just around the corner,_ Gabriel says, stepping over the bodies slumped on the floor, high off their brains. There are moving through a warehouse now, the mess of syringes and vomit and shit almost covering the floor entirely. Crowley wonders if he’s seen this place before.

 _Easy now,_ Gabriel hisses, suddenly coming to a stop, and he grabs Crowley’s arm painfully, points to something in the distance. _There he is_.

Aziraphale is standing there, leaning against the wall of the fence, looking past the entrance gate, the words _Arbeit Macht Frei_ curved in rusty metal letters above his head. Tentatively, Crowley makes his way to him, the eerie silence around him almost deafening.

 _Careful,_ Aziraphale says without even looking at him. He’s trying to see something behind the gates. _You don’t want to spook them._

 _Who,_ Crowley wants to ask, but the feeling of uneasiness of utter wrongness of this makes his head spin. He’s not sure he understands what’s happening. The air around him is electrified with tension and madness and dread.

And then he sees it, something moving behind the gates, flickers of shadows, hints of movement. Someone’s there, locked behind the gates.

 _I’ve got them all ready for you,_ Aziraphale says, still without even glancing at him. Crowley can’t even see his face, and that makes him even more frightened. _You can do it now._

There’s a shotgun in his hands, Crowley notices. The temperature around him goes up suddenly, and he’s sweating, feels drops of it run down his forehead, his temples. He tries to wipe it away before it got into his eyes and realizes he’s not wearing his glasses.

 _Come on, Crowley,_ Aziraphale says, voice coming to him as if from behind a cement wall, _that’s what you’re here for._

No, he wants to say, no, no, please, because he understands now, knows what Aziraphale wants him to do. Please, I can’t, I don’t want to.

 _That’s what you’re here for,_ Aziraphale says again and finally turns around. His face is horrifying and distorted, as if someone melted it like a candle and then tried to mould it back together. Crowley wants to scream, wants to yell and kick, _I can’t do it, please, Aziraphale, no, I can’t_ and it’s burning, he can’t

 _Watch your feet, Crowley_ , Aziraphale says, nodding at the ground, _you’re burning._

And he _is_ burning, the flames coming up as if from Hell itself, swallowing up his feet and his legs, licking at his chest, red and hot, and he’s burning, he’s burning away just like the bookstore, just like Aziraphale did, and the smell is atrocious, and he can’t even scream, please, please, no, stop it, please

“ _CROWLEY!”_

Crowley wakes up.

Aziraphale’s face is over him, terrified and wide-eyed and pained. Neither of them sleeps after that.

***

Crowley has never told Aziraphale what happened to those officers back in 1944. Never told him what he did to them. Aziraphale’s never asked.

That night, Crowley tells him anyway, the frightened voice that’s often held court in his head but always seemed so much louder and surer of itself in a quiet hotel room after dark, finally spilling out.

In an almost masochistic pleasure, he watches Aziraphale’s face contort and fall and shatter.

Even Aziraphale can’t be that forgiving.

***

It all has to end in Beinwil, Switzerland, Crowley realizes, as soon as Aziraphale looks up at him from the book. Crowley’s always been a little in love with Aziraphale’s face when he's reading a book, the calm and focus. Like Aziraphale is doing exactly what he's meant to do, at peace with the universe and himself. Crowley wishes now that he had more time to memorize it, to bottle it up and keep it for himself to later pull it out in light of day to examine, to remember.

“What?” Aziraphale says with a frown, as if he hasn’t heard him.

“I know you can’t forgive me,” Crowley repeats, with a little shrug, as if nothing could hurt him anymore. Some days he actually feels like that. “I know you never will.”

“What?” Aziraphale says again, dumbly. He blinks fast, as if seeing Crowley just now for the first time. Oh, the sweet irony.

“Are you gonna say anything else?” Crowley snaps.

“I would, if I could understand what on earth you are talking about!” Aziraphale bellows, hands in the air. His ridiculous out-dated reading glasses slide down his nose.

“I’m saying,” Crowley says, letting himself close his eyes. It’s always easier to not look directly at the sun. “I’m saying that it’s alright. I understand”

“Understand _what_?” Aziraphale demands, voice steadily raising volume. “Maybe you can help _me_ understand, then, because I certainly do not!”

Crowley lets out a long shaky sigh, the floor suddenly jittery beneath his feet.

“ _You know what I did,_ ” he whispers too quietly, half-hoping Aziraphale won’t hear him. “You know what I’ve done. In the last, well, _millennia_. I understand that you can’t live with that.”

“Oh, _oohh_ ,” Aziraphale hisses, and Crowley’s eyes fly open to stare at him. He can’t recall ever seeing Aziraphale so furious. The furniture around them jitters and creaks. “I’m sorry, but what helped you to such an understanding?

“You are an Angel, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, and that should be fucking enough of an explanation. They both have been too stupid not to see it from the beginning. “Even you can’t be _that_ forgiving.”

Aziraphale is quiet as Crowley shuts his eyes again, listening to the sounds outside the window. A song is playing outside, a song he’s always liked—but now it sounds watery and remote, like it’s emanating from the past, rather than from just outside the window. 

It’s a beautiful autumn day, especially beautiful here in Beinwil, fleeting and almost sad, blink-and-you-miss-it kind of beauty when he takes in the place.

The images going through his mind are not so beautiful, on the other hand – a stark contrast to the ones he can see outside – the filthy crumbling warehouse, the never ending sobs and moans and hiccups, the gnawing chewing sound of the wind cutting away the stone and dust bit by bit, cockroaches running around the floor, crawling up his legs, his arms, his neck, crawling into his very heart. He recalls lying on that same floor amongst it all, wishing for it to just be over, but being too much of a coward to do it himself, only decisive enough to speed thing along a little. Remembers coming back to his flat later to find all of his plants dry and completely dead, perfectly reflecting the way he felt, and not caring for it either way. Remembers Aziraphale leaving again – over and over it goes, the tragic fucking roundabout of his life – and then it was just himself in the quiet flat, his own hands moving doggedly in front of his face, no one smiling into the mirror, no one smiling back. Remembers how cathartic and even righteous it had felt to confront Aziraphale in his daydreams, to demand his forgiveness, as if he were an instrument of divine justice.

But even Aziraphale can’t be that forgiving.

“I knew you’ve been speaking to yourself, I knew it,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley snaps out of it, looks at him. All the fight seems to have leaked out of him, leaving him looking sad and exhausted, and Crowley feels a sharp stab of guilt for making him feel this way.

“What?” he says instead, no idea what Aziraphale means.

“Your plants,” Aziraphale says, raising his eyebrows.

“What about them?”

“Nothing. About _them_. It’s always been about _you_ , hasn’t it?” Aziraphale says shrewdly, and Crowley is reminded once again that behind those warm smiles and baby blue eyes hides the intellect and wit sharp enough to cut.

“And there’s no one to blame but myself,” Aziraphale continues, looking at the floor. He looks small and miserable and Crowley just _aches_.

“What are you even talking about, angel!” he growls, annoyed losing yet again the control of the conversation to Aziraphale.

“Well, I suppose another hundred of ‘ _I’m sorry’s’_ is not going to cut it,” Aziraphale is saying as if to himself. Crowley can almost hear him thinking, trying to formulate his statements as clearly as he can, as if his life depended on it. “All’s left, really, is to spend the rest of my lifetime to undo the damage I’ve done.”

“What bloody lifetime are you talking about?!” Crowley explodes, feeling water behind his eyes. “Are you joking?! You know it’s all over now, as well as I do!”

Aziraphale actually takes a step back, blinks at him rapidly, mouth hanging open.

“What? _Over_ —what are you saying?”

Crowley looks at him incredulously. “You and I both know this can’t last. And we’ve known for awhile.”

“I’m sorry, what is it that I’m supposed to have known?” Aziraphale bellows in a cracking voice, shaking his head vehemently. He looks positively ancient.

“Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it, Aziraphale, I know you have!” Crowley accuses, and his voice runs away from him. His mouth works for a moment silently. Then he coughs, blinks, answers with that gruff voice that doesn’t have a chance to crack. “You’ve realized it has to end,” he finishes much calmer, even though his heart might pound right out of his chest any moment now, the fucking traitorous thing.

Aziraphale looks hurt. And what the fuck, he doesn’t have the right to look hurt, he’s the one leaving Crowley again like he’s done before, like he’s done a thousand times before.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says weakly, gripping the back of the chair he’d been sitting on. “I wasn’t going to leave you. I’d never think of leaving you, _please_ believe me.”

Crowley doesn’t, but he now feels… tentative. Hopeful.

The trait Crowley would most happily be rid of is his capacity to cling to hope up to and beyond his very last breath, to hope when his grave's halfway filled-in. But he can’t be rid of it, and Aziraphale’s eyes are tight and hurt, and maybe Crowley’s not the only one losing pieces of himself.

“I’ve been thinking about what happens when we go back. To London, that is,” he heaves out a painful-looking breath. “I wanted us to stay together, just like this, just as we’ve been doing for the last couple of months.”

“What do you mean?” Crowley risks to ask, and he won’t fucking break down again, not in front of Aziraphale, not again, he’s goddamn pathetic

“I mean us, living together,” Aziraphale says. His knuckles are white where he’s gripping the back of the chair. “Maybe subletting my store, getting ourselves a house in the suburbs. Somewhere with a garden for all your plants.”

Crowley’s hands are shaking thunderously, yearning to reach out and touch the person on front of him, but he puts them in his pockets instead. His brain is yet to catch up to his ears.

“You see, I think that the problem with you and I, is that we’ve always been trying to prove something, trying to fight something, to save something,” Aziraphale says thoughtfully, eyes locked with something beyond Crowley’s presence. “We’ve never had the chance to just… live.”

“What do you mean?” Crowley whispers again through the lump in his throat, words almost painful to get out. He feels like crying. He feels like fleeing to Timbuktu and hiding in the deepest pitch where no one could ever find him, and trying to nurse whatever’s left of his dignity, however little that might be.

“I mean going to bed together, waking up together, getting breakfast, reading the morning newspaper, talking about the traffic in London – you know, just _living_.”

He says it quietly, somberly, eyes far away, as if imagining those mornings with the newspapers and traffic discussion. “Now that I’ve had it, I don’t think I can go back to living the way I used to, without you there every single day for the rest of my existence.”

His gaze finally fixes on Crowley, and there’s something raw and painful in his crystal blue eyes.

“And then there’s this… issue with, ah,” Aziraphale winces as if the words are sharp on his tongue. “With the _forgiving_ , that I need to address.”

“Aziraphale—” He stops, because words are usually what get him into trouble.

“Forgiving you would imply that you’ve done something worth forgiving, and that is just—well, it’s not true,” he finishes haltingly. “Whatever you’ve done, my darling, you’ve done out of the sheer kindness of your heart, and asking _me_ of all people to forgive _you_ , well, it’s a bloody _joke_.”

Crowley stays put, his focus solely on Aziraphale. He must look like a wreck indeed, if Aziraphale isn’t above swearing. It’s always something serious-important-sacred-lifechanging when Aziraphale decides to do that.

“You asking for forgiveness would imply that you’re not the kindest, most decent and beautiful person I’ve ever known, would imply that you’re not simply _perfect_ , Crowley, just as you are. Which you are,” his breathing has turned ragged and erratic, and the mirror on the far wall cracks and shatters into pieces. There’s a joke about seven years of bad luck somewhere in the back of Crowley’s hazy mind. He keeps silent, as his entire body spasms and jerks trying to stay still.

“Which in turn,” Aziraphale croaks out, and his voice cracks with emotion. He wipes his nose and mouth with the back of his hand absently. “would imply that I have the goddamn _authority_ on forgiving _anyone._ And that loving you as you are could somehow be wrong. And I can’t have that.” His chest contracts and he lets out a sob, hand flying up to cover his face. He looks utterly unhinged. “The only thing I’ve done right in my life is loving someone so completely – with as much of my… broken soul, as I can muster, and loving a person who’s so much better, so much bigger than myself.”

Crowley’s legs carry him forward without his permission. Next thing he knows he’s wrapped around Aziraphale, arms tight around his neck, his waist, his shoulder – anywhere he car grasp, as Aziraphale falls apart completely in his hands.

“I forgive you,” he finds himself saying as if his mouth was speaking on its own accord. “It’s alright, angel, I forgive you. _I forgive you_.”

Aziraphale sobs in his arms, body shaking and convulsing, and the furniture around them is flying around mashing against the walls and the floor and the ceiling, and Crowley thinks he can almost hear Aziraphale’s monster howl and wail.

 _I forgive you,_ he keeps whispering into Aziraphale’s ear, over and over again, rocking him back and forth, like one would to a cried-out child. _I forgive you,_ and the words taste alien in his mouth, the first time he’s ever spoken them in this order.

 _Darling, darling,_ Aziraphale cries, and for the first time, Crowley is alright with the word.

 _I love you,_ he says in a less than a whisper, as Aziraphale starts to calm, and the stab of tenderness and longing he feels is so cosmic and so beyond him, he doesn’t even know where to start.

Maybe, Aziraphale is right. Maybe he could start by just… living.

The end.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews help me snap out of my self-pity and mourning over my tragic lack of talent in writing


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